


Drop The Game

by annabellelux



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baz Is Soft, Fluff, Football Announcer Simon, Humor, M/M, Protective!Simon, Simon goes feral, Simon is oblivious, Watford Seventh Year, footballer baz, graphic depictions of (seemingly) unrequited love, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux
Summary: Baz has been ignoring Simon and spending all his time down at the football pitch, and Simon is determined to get to the bottom of it. When Coach Mac asks Simon to be Watford's football announcer, Simon jumps at the chance, eager to figure out what Baz is plotting.(Baz, on the other hand, is decidedly less thrilled to see Simon in the announcer’s booth, considering the only thing he’s been plotting is a way to get over Simon.)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 80
Kudos: 716





	Drop The Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flintandfuss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flintandfuss/gifts).



> @flintandfuss requested a football announcer Simon fic on the @carryonprompts Tumblr page, and I got to writing it, like.... immediately. (go check out that page to request and fill prompts!) 
> 
> The title is from the Flume & Chet Faker's 'Drop The Game', which is an absolute banger. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas for their encouragement (and correction of my mis-spaced em dashes) [@thedaggerrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose) & [@PanicAtTheAlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanicAtTheAlice/pseuds/PanicAtTheAlice)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this!

**Simon**

I'm not sure _what_ exactly Baz has been plotting lately, but I'm going to get to the bottom of it. 

He's been spending all his free periods and weekends down at the football pitch. I'll find him there at all hours: at teatime, after dinner, on weekends. A couple mornings he's even woken up earlier than me, before breakfast is even served. The very same wanker who once spelled my shoelaces to trip me for weeks after I woke him up on a Saturday is now acting like it's normal for him to run laps at dawn. 

He hardly spends any of his time in our bedroom anymore; he's even doing his revision and homework down on the bleachers now. His constant absence prickles at my nerves uncomfortably—like a warning sign, like the calm before the storm. 

I've been following him down to the pitch every day to see what he's up to. I've even started attending all his football practices again—Penny banned that in sixth year, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I've overruled her for now— but he hasn't slipped up yet. Every time he's just running drills, or kicking the ball around, or talking to Coach Mac.

He's been acting dodgy since seventh year began; he skipped the welcome feast, and that's when we traditionally have our first trading of insults of the school year. (It's a tradition at this point—it was _highly_ suspicious of him not to participate.) I didn't think much of it, except when he did finally make it to school—only an hour before curfew the night before term began— he didn't even bother sneering at me. His grey eyes slipped over me as if I were a ghost, and he headed to the loo without a single slur against me. 

He doesn't snicker when I've mucked up a spell in Magic Words. He's stopped sending Agatha long looks across the dining hall (he doesn't even _glance_ at our table). The rare times he is in our room, he ignores me, even when I try my best to goad him into saying _something_ , anything. 

Penny says I've complained about how I wished Baz would leave me alone since our second week of first year, and I should be glad that he finally has. That maybe Baz has matured. That maybe he's not so bad after all. 

But Penny doesn't know Baz like I do. He's obviously up to something. And I'm going to find out what. 

* * *

**Baz**

Simon Snow is an insufferable git. 

I thought he had left the stalking behind back in fifth year, but clearly I was mistaken. He's picked the bad habit back up with a fervor this year, determined, as he says, " _to find out exactly what I'm plotting_." 

I wonder what he'd do if I just said it outright, if I told him the only plan I've got in place for the year. I imagine the way his eyebrows would furrow, his eyes would widen, his bottom lip would curl in disgust. The way he'd hit me with his all of his fighter's strength if I were to say the truth out loud.

" _Simon Snow, I'm plotting a way to fall out of love with you."_

Trying to kill him didn't work. Wanking my feelings away didn't work. Flirting with Agatha Wellbelove to get under his skin didn't work (I thought jealousy might be a bad look on him. I was wrong—so _very_ wrong. I just wish that his jealousy would have been directed towards me and not her). So, this year, I've sworn a vow of silence. 

Because something other than his sword through my chest has to work, right? 

He's been doing everything he can to break my resolve, but I'm trying to focus on things unrelated to Simon Snow. My schoolwork. My friends (the two of them I have). And football, especially since Coach Mac said that I've got what it takes to make captain next year. I've been practicing day and night, trying to burn off the excess energy I have stored up from ignoring Snow. I underestimated what a rise our spats would give me. How much I loved the adrenaline spike and the bonfire smell of his magic that came with them. How his unwavering attention would fill me up for hours at a time, heating my frozen veins and making me feel alive. 

But exercise is supposed to rush you with endorphins, and it isn't going to end up stabbing you to death on a battlefield. 

Though, it appears Snow can't even let me have football to myself. (Because he is, and always has been, an _insufferable git_.) This must be my retribution for every awful thing I've ever said or done to Snow. From beyond the grave, Merlin is laughing at me as I try to run laps with the Greatest Mage's blue eyes glued to my every step. 

I just need to keep trying, though. He can't follow me around forever, right? ( _Right!?)_

I wake up the morning of our first game of the season before Snow. He's sprawled out with his appalling, standard-issued Watford sheets bunched around his hips. He hasn't got the decency to put a shirt on, so his lean figure is out on display. _Don't look,_ I force myself to think as I wrench my gaze away. It's harder to pretend I don't want him when he's asleep; I can't use the discomfort of his suspicious gaze to discourage my feelings. I can barely compel myself to look away when he's like this: peaceful, and beautiful, and not spitting insults in my direction. 

But I manage to dress myself in my football kit quickly and silently before he awakes. I slip out of our bedroom without another look at him, and I thank Crowley for that small miracle of self control.

The October morning cold sharpens my senses and keeps me focused as I make my way to the pitch. I'm alone on the field for once—no teammates or Snow watching me—so I start to just mess around with the ball, juggling it on the tops of my knees and shins back and forth, not letting it touch the ground. I smile a private grin when I keep up a particularly long and steady rhythm, enjoying the soft thud when the ball hits my body and the slight ache in my abdominal muscles after some time has gone by. When I see Coach Mac making his way over to the pitch, I switch to traditional football drills, pretending that I had been seriously practicing this entire time. He sends me a proud, satisfied smile, so I think he's bought it. 

By the time the other boys are making their way to the locker room, I feel at ease. There's no way Snow's going to be able to ruin game day like he's been ruining all my other times at the pitch; the whole school shows up for our first game of the year, so he'll be easy to overlook in the crowd (as long as I force myself not to seek him out). I can just have fun and try to win today, without any interruptions from Simon bloody Snow. 

* * *

**Simon**

When I wake up, it's too bright in the room, tipping me off to the fact that it's mid morning. Baz is already gone, I notice with a scowl; I rip off my bedsheets with more force than is strictly necessary. When I get up, I notice he’s left his planner open on his desk, and he's got today's date circled three times in red pen. 

_Aleister Crowley,_ I think. _Today must be the day._

I throw on my uniform and head down to the dining hall. Penny's already waiting for me, a cup of tea and a plate of scones set in front of my usual seat. I slam Baz's planner down onto the table; she startles as the table rattles underneath her. 

"Merlin, Simon!" she yells as I exclaim, "Proof!" 

"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding a bit sorry, "what?" 

"Here's proof that Baz is plotting! You said next time I brought his plotting up, I needed proof, and here it is!"

Penny eyes Baz's planner skeptically. "That doesn't look like proof," she says slowly, "that looks like his school planner." 

"Which is proof!" 

"What did I say about petty theft, Simon?" 

"It's rude," I repeat her words from the time I stole Baz's embroidered handkerchief. (Penny was working on divination magic at the time, and I thought she could use it to predict what his next plot would be.) "But look, he's going to strike today. He's got the date circled in red. Three times!" 

Penny sighs, but looks at where I'm pointing. Her face scrunches up for a moment, considering, before her expression relaxes. "He's got a football game today. He was probably just excited for that."

"Baz doesn't get excited unless it's about causing me misery." 

"Sure he does," she remarks with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Haven't you seen him practicing for this at the pitch nonstop?" 

"Well, yes, but that's obviously a coverup." 

"For what?" 

She keeps asking me that question, but I still don't know the answer, so I ignore it. "He's a vampire, Pen. Why would he need to practice so much? He's got inhuman strength and energy."

"Allegedly," she counters, "and I don't think all vampires are naturally gifted football stars." 

I scowl at the fact that she just complimented Baz, but don't argue with her. Baz _is_ a football star, after all. 

"Well, I'm going to go down early to see what he's up to," I declare.

"Let me know if you catch him sacrificing a puppy to the gods of football," she says with a teasing smile. 

I storm off (though not before grabbing a handful of scones for the way). When I turn back, Penny's not following me; though, I hadn't really expected her to. 

I'm shoving my third scone in my mouth when I hear someone calling my name. 

"Mr. Snow!" Coach Mac yells as he jogs up to me. I wipe the crumbs off my chin to face him. "I was looking for you."

"Hey, Coach!" I say. "What's up?"

"You like football, yeah?" he asks, though it sounds more like a statement. He laughs, and adds, "you're at every one of our practices. You're our biggest fan!"

"Ye-yeah," I respond, my face reddening. I mean, I do like football. But that's not why I'm at the practices. 

"Ace! So, Elsbeth is our usual football announcer, but she's in the nurse's office sick with the flu. Think you can step in for her for the game?" 

I'm about to say no, make up some excuse for why I can't. (Because I've got to figure out what Baz is up to.) Except… if I'm the announcer, he'll let me into the announcer's booth, with an unobstructed view of the game. A perfect view of Baz. 

He's not getting away with whatever he's planning for today. 

So, I ask Coach, "Can you magick the mic for me?" 

* * *

**Baz**

My skin is humming with anticipation as the team exits the locker room and walks onto the football pitch. The sound of the crowd's cheers buzzes in my ears and I send a cocky smile to the bleachers, taking care not to seek out bronze curls and blue eyes.

As our teams' captains make their way to the centre circle to shake hands, I smile, ready to enjoy two and a half hours without Snow's accusations.

That is, until I hear his voice.

"Uh, is this thing on?...Oh-oh! Hello, everyone! Welcome to Watford's first football game of the season!"

My head turns to him so inhumanly quickly that I'd get whiplash if I weren't a vampire. I make eye contact with the one person I was trying to avoid, and find Simon Snow sitting in Elsbeth's place in the announcer's booth. He runs his hand through his mop of curls and sends me a triumphant smile, staring shamelessly at me with a knowing expression (or, more accurately, a look that tells me he _thinks_ he knows something). I curse aloud, not even bothering to muffle the swear under my breath. 

"You good, mate?" Niall asks, clapping me on the back. I scowl— at him and Snow and Merlin up above.

"Just peachy," I spit out darkly, and Niall's eyes follow mine to the announcer's booth. When Niall sees what's got me in such a foul mood, he lets out a low whistle. 

"Persistent bugger, isn't he?" Niall says with a twinge of amusement in his voice. 

I think of the way Snow haunts my dreams, the ache that the ghost of his imagined fingertips leaves on my skin in the mornings after nights spent wrapped up in a fantasy, and think, _you don't know the half of it._

I force myself to turn away from Snow and take my position on the field, but there's no escape from the sound of his voice, magickly amplified to cover the entire football pitch. 

"So, er, today we're playing the Kinsale School's team. The captains are shaking hands before the match begins. And everyone's taking their positions to start. Watford's going to be to take the first kickoff. Wait, no, Kinsale is? No, no, definitely Watford, yeah. We're going to the left. Uh, my left, anyways. _That_ way. Yeah," he finishes lamely. 

I scowl at his awkward ramblings (not least of all at the fact that I almost find it charming). Only Snow could show up to every football game and still fail to properly verbalize a simple coin flip. 

"Okay, okay. It's starting!" Snow exclaims, startling me out of my thoughts of him. A Kinsale player has kicked the ball in the direction of me and Niall, and my five second delay means that Niall's got the ball instead of me. 

"Kelly gets the ball because Baz Pitch was too busy burning a hole into the ground with his glare," Snow announces to the entire stadium to a chorus of surprised chuckles. I can feel the little blood I have flood to my cheeks in embarrassment; though I know I haven't drank recently enough for me to flush, I feel vulnerable nonetheless. I race across the pitch to an opening on Niall's right. I lift my chin and wait to catch Niall's eye so he knows to pass the ball to me; we've played together since we were children, so he senses my meaningful gaze and kicks over to me.

"Pitch has the ball now, to no one's surprise," Snow comments bitterly, "he's known to be a bloody ball hog, after all." 

I clench my teeth and continue to make my way towards Kinsale's goal despite Snow's taunts. 

"Pitch is making his way down the field. He's fast, a little _too_ fast, if you know what I mean. _Unnaturally fast,_ " Simon announces, his tone dripping with unsubtle insinuation. I keep running, trying to keep his accusations out of my head. I vow not to let him break my concentration. (I've been playing on the Watford team since second year, after all. I know what speed to run to appear just like a talented runner, and not a vampire.)

"I'm just saying, no one is supposed to be that graceful. Running’s not supposed to look that… _pretty._ ”

I trip over the ball when I hear him say that, my heart beating wildly at the fact that he’s just used the word _pretty_ to describe me. I mean, he intended it as an insult, and he spit the word out like it was a curse, but still. 

My lapse in concentration gives Kinsale's striker time to sneak in to steal the ball from me. I snarl in retaliation and the bastard sends me a cocky grin. 

“Looks like Pitch gave up the ball for once. Kinsale’s #4’s got it now, after nearly making Pitch fall on his arse,” Snow says smugly. 

Is Snow really _rooting for the other team_ right now? 

As I race off after #4, I think: _I’m going to make Snow regret this._

* * *

**Simon**

Baz moves like hellfire, so fast it's like he's reincarnated from Achilles. I know it's just because he's a vampire, but do all vampires move like _that_ , like running is more of a dance or an art than an exercise? 

He's only getting more ruthless throughout the game; he and Kinsale's #4 have been stealing passes from one another like clockwork. The game's close, with Kinsale leading the scoreboard by one.

Football announcing is proving more difficult than I had imagined it; it's hard to keep up with the game. Even harder to keep up with Baz.

"Watford's back on offense… Howard's got the ball, and he passes it to Kelly, who's probably going to… yeah, of course, Pitch's got it now, and he's running towards the goalkeeper." _Talented wanker,_ I think, though I refrain from saying that into the microphone. "He's almost there, and… he scores," I say bitterly, though his goal tied the scoreboard. I want them to win, just not because of _Baz._ "You're going to have to take him out if you want him to stop scoring." 

Baz looks up at me when I say this and sends me a predatory smile, all sharp teeth and bravado. It sends a shiver down my spine and I frown at him in response. He's too busy grinning at me to notice #4 come up behind him and shove him with his shoulder. Baz stumbles a little before righting himself, and I let out a noise of contempt at #4's lack of sportsmanship.

"Foul!" I complain into the microphone. "#4 just shoved Baz! Red card! Or, er, yellow card?" I actually don't know the rules for that. 

The referee doesn't heed my advice; the game continues on, though there's a heat between our schools' star players. Before, it was competitive, but since #4's foul, it's grown antagonistic, with the two of them crowding each other with vindictive hostility. 

_Baz has got a new enemy,_ I think. Baz is looking at me far less since him and #4 started aggressively fighting over possession of the ball; he's got his hands full, the two of them taking the ball from under one another's noses frequently. Baz is a vampire; he should be able to best Kinsale easily. But I suppose he's being careful, trying not to give himself away as a monster. (I'm starting to think #4 might be a monster himself. He's big and burly for a football player; he looks like he'd be better suited to rugby.) (Kinsale is a magick school; maybe he's a werewolf.)

"#4's making his way to Watford's goal," I announce. There's not much time left on the clock, and neither Baz nor #4 has managed to score any goals since Baz's last. The two of them have been trailing each other like magnets, and I've got the urge to tell #4 off for following Baz so adamantly. (He knows there are other players, right?) (Even if none of them are half as good as Baz.) 

#4's getting closer and closer to Watford's goalie; he's swerving around Watford players with surprising precision for a bloke his size. Baz is on his heels, breaking a sweat, his shirt soaked at the collar from his relentless exertion. His expression is cutthroat, competitive, and he's got a glint in his eyes like he'd love nothing more than to best #4 on the pitch right now. 

That's why I'm not surprised that, when #4 goes to shoot his shot, Baz intercepts the ball midair with marvelous grace. 

The crowd lets out a cheer of amazement, and even I'm swept up in the joy of Baz's talent. "Baz gets the ball back from Kinsale! He's racing down the field—he's so bloody _fast_ , Merlin— and he's close, he's so close, c'mon, and… he scores! Baz scores!"

I cheer, delighted Watford's taken the lead, even if it was Baz. (I should have known it would be him. It's always him.) I realize, smiling down at a whooping Baz, that I haven't thought once about Baz's plotting the entire time I've been watching the game. I thought about _Baz_ plenty, of course, but not about what his evil plans might be. 

_What does that mean?_ I think, watching Baz readjust his ponytail. _Why am I so fixated on him playing football, if it isn't his plotting?_

I don't have time to consider my answer, because just as I'm about to, #4 punches Baz in the face. 

A scream wrenches it's way out of my throat, and I'm on my feet before Baz hits the ground. 

**Baz**

I've got vampire reflexes; I really should've seen it coming. 

But Simon Snow was _smiling_ at me. I mean, probably not _at me,_ specifically. But smiling in my direction. Smiling because I made a goal. (He didn't even seem angry or bitter when he was announcing my steal.) 

It was all very miraculous, truly, before #4 sucker-punched the side of my head. 

I hit the ground in a graceless tumble, not expecting the hit (at least Snow has the decency to make sure I'm paying attention when he attacks me; he isn't the type to try to catch a bloke unawares). I twist up towards #4, readying myself to strike, when he punches me again, this time in the eye. 

_Crowley._ The two of us have been competing pretty fiercely this game, but I wasn't anticipating some unfriendly football to spiral into a classless brawl. 

Before he can strike me a third time, I grab him by the wrist, and twist. I hear a satisfying _snap_ and he howls in agony at the break. I shove him back, hoping the shock of the pain will get the tosser on his feet and off of me. 

But that's not what does it. It's Simon Snow pulling him up by his jersey that gets him up; #4 stumbles as he's yanked up, and Snow punches him hard in the nose. 

Snow looks like poetic justice; I've always loved the way he gets when he fights. Feral, electric, beautiful. Everything from the tightness of his jawline to the intensity of his eyes sets me on fire. The time he broke my nose, the last thought I had before his fist connected with my face was _lovely._ (The thought immediately after was _motherfucker_.) 

I find I like it much better when he's fighting _for me_ rather than _against me_. 

#4 goes to protect his face just as Snow is wrenched away from him. Coach Mac has got Snow around the waist, and Snow's still trying to punch at #4. The referee's high-pitched whistles ring in my ear as I watch #4 cower (Snow got four good hits in before Coach got to him; and I know from experience that Snow could've been a boxer in another life). I can't help it; I smirk at #4 in triumph, despite the fact that I didn't get a punch in myself. (Blame the shock of it all.) (And it's not like I did _nothing._ I did break his wrist, after all.) 

Coach can't get Snow under control; he's a snarling, feral mess of rage at #4. That is, until Miss Possibelf runs onto the pitch. "Mr. Snow!" she yells, and Snow stills under Coach's grip. "What _exactly_ do you think you're doing?" 

"I'm—he—I—he punched Baz!" Snow yells with an accusatory finger at #4. He, by now, had gotten to his feet, and he takes a step back at Snow's harsh glare. 

"So you just had to join in on the fun? " Miss Possibelf asks condescendingly, her expression indignant and stern. (She's truly mastered her teacher persona; on cue, her question makes Snow shuffle like a sheepish schoolboy.) 

"Well, I thought I'd. Uh," Snow stutters, and stops. I want him to finish that sentence so badly; after weeks of fantasizing about spelling Snow mute, I'm suddenly desperate to hear his voice. Desperate to hear him explain why he just came so spectacularly to my defense. But Snow just looks down at his shoelaces to escape Possibelf's lethal glare. 

"My office. Now," she says to Snow, and then turns to me, and adds, "and the nurse's office for you." 

"I'm fine," I insist. 

"You're _bleeding_ ," she counters. I take my hand to my ear and—huh, I suppose I am. I hadn't noticed. I want to keep arguing with her that I don't need the nurse's assistance (I'm a vampire after all; I'm not going to die from a couple blows from a bloke with a bad temper) but her tone suggested the matter, in her mind, was already settled, so I don’t bother with my protests. 

As I make my way back to the main campus to visit the nurse, my thoughts are completely occupied with questions about Snow's behavior today. Everything's upside down; the more I think about why Snow would do anything he just did, the more tangled my brain gets. 

All I know is one thing: Simon Snow is going to explain himself.

* * *

**Simon**

Embarrassment wells in me as I make my way back to Mummer's. Miss Possibelf spent half an hour explaining how my behavior was "appalling on every level"; from the fact that my actions reflected poorly on the Mage to her opinion that I was a very biased announcer. 

But the worst part was at the end, when she just cocked her head quizzically at me and asked, simply, "Why did you come to Mr. Pitch's defense?" 

I didn't have an answer for her; I choked on every unplanned explanation I tried to force out of my mouth. After a minute of that, she took pity on me, and dismissed me from her office with a month of weekend detentions and a promise that she'd write the Mage right away to tell him what I'd done. (That didn't have the effect on me she was hoping for. He hasn't spoken to me since the start of term, anyways.) 

Possibelf's question rattles in my head as I make it up the stairs to my room. Why _did_ I do that? I didn't choose to; I just did it. One second I saw that fucker's fist connect with Baz's head, and the next I was standing above him, seeing red. I had no reason to react like that. Merlin, _I've_ punched Baz myself more times than I can count. But when I saw #4 going at Baz, something in me just… snapped.

I still haven't figured it out when I turn the doorknob and walk into our room. 

I hadn't expected Baz to be here. He's avoided the room like it's contagious, and now he's sitting at his desk with the chair pivoted 180 degrees to face me, staring me down with his arms and legs crossed. He's not even bothered to change out of his football kit. A blush rises from my chest, up to my neck, and all the way to my forehead, looking at him sitting there in his blood-splattered jersey and grass-stained shorts with his ever-present poise. 

I open my mouth and "are you alright?" comes out. 

His eyebrows rise up comically far on his forehead. "Pardon me?" 

I don't trust myself not to say something stupid, so I just gesture at his ear. 

"Why would you care, Snow?" Baz sneers, and fury blossoms in my chest at his blatant contempt.

"Whatever, you ungrateful prick," I snap, setting my book bag down on my desk. I fumble with the buckles to give myself something to do. 

"Is that what you're waiting for? A thank you? For me to shower you with my unwavering gratitude? I'm not _Wellbelove_ , I don't need rescuing." 

His mention of Agatha just fuels my rage (Especially because it sounds just like what she said, when she broke up with me. 'I'm not a damsel in distress, Simon. I don't need you to save me.') (Have they been talking about me?) 

"Don't talk about Agatha like that," I snap, not sure if I'm feeling defensive on her behalf or my own. 

Baz laughs cruelly in that way I absolutely _loathe_. It ruins his pretty features, making him look like a cartoon villain. (I don't know why that surprises me. That's just what he is though, _right_?)

"You're pathetic. The Mage has got you so trained as his guard dog that you're just itching to bite, aren't you, Snow? Even if it's in some misguided attempt to protect _me,_ of all people." After nearly a month of holding back on the insults, I expected for Baz to relish in mocking me. But his voice isn't vindictive or darkly pleased; it's almost bitter. 

"What do you want me to say?" I try to sound sharp, but I think I just sound weary. I've been wanting to argue with him for a month. I thought endlessly of yelling at him or getting my hands on him and punching away his infuriating self-composure. I don't know why that seems so unsatisfying now. 

But when Baz stands to get in my face, it gets my heart racing the way I'd missed. He's just a hair's breadth away when he snarls, "Why are you so obsessed with me?" 

I don't bother denying that. (It's true, after all. Everyone knows it.) "Because…" I search for the answer. I can't find it, so I use my default response. "You're always plotting against me." 

"That's why you had to weasel your way into being the football announcer? You thought… what? I'd stage a political coup at halftime if you didn't keep an eye on me?" 

It sounds so ridiculous when he says it aloud. 

"You're always—you're so. I just," I stammer. 

"Use your words, Snow."

"Can't you just?" I choke out. 

"No," he snarls, "I can't _just._ "

I growl and shove him up against the wall. He's taller than me, by three infuriating inches, so I'm looking up at him, his grey eyes contemptuous as he sneers down his crooked nose. 

"You drive me crazy," I blurt out. It doesn't sound like an insult; it sounds like a confession. 

The answer is on the tip of my tongue: the real reason I did all this. Why I've been following him around all year, even though all I've managed to catch him doing is playing some footie. Why every time his eyes slid over me in the dining hall, my skin would prickle in discomfort, like when I was a child getting passed up by every pair of adoptive parents that came to the homes. Why looking at him is like looking right into the eye of a tornado, the way he makes destruction look so goddamn beautiful. 

I'm so close I can taste it. So close to figuring out the mystery of Baz Pitch and all the wild, inexplicable things he makes me feel. 

I feel the realization slowly creep on me, but before I can find words for this phenomenon, Baz cuts right to the chase. To the solution. 

His lips on mine. 

**Baz**

I couldn't stop myself; these weeks of ignoring Snow made me so much more weak for him than I already was. Finally talking to him—even if it was just fighting with him— was like coming up for air after drowning; I was desperate for him, like he was as vital as oxygen. 

I thought he would push me away. Punch me in the face and break the anathema. He doesn't though; he kisses back in a blaze of heat. 

My heart goes up in flames under his touch. 

**Simon**

There isn't anything in the world that isn't Baz Pitch. 

I push my body against his and he groans in approval. He starts kissing back more enthusiastically, more desperately than before, and I meet him there, at this place of heightened passion. 

Nothing in the world has ever felt this good. Nothing has ever felt so right. 

He smells like sweat, and underneath that, his signature cedar and bergamot shampoo. I run my fingers through his hair, messing it up more than football ever has, and revel in its softness of it. 

_I always thought it'd feel like this_ , I realize as I pull his hair loose from its ponytail. That's because I've thought about it, more than once. I've thought about the texture of his hair, the feel of his lips, the hardness of his body, beautiful and muscled from all the years of football. Everything I'm doing right now—running my hands down his sides, taking my teeth to his bottom lip, listening to the muffled sounds of approval he makes against my mouth—I've fantasized about all of it before. I've locked it all in my _Things Not To Think About_ box, but it's all coming to me now, the realization crashing into me like a tidal wave. 

Memories of my heart racing at the sight of Baz running down the football pitch. Of him laughing at a joke Dev had told him in Magick Words, his smile wide and unselfconscious. Of him coming out of the shower with his hair sticking in wet locks against his cheek. Of seeing him tie his tie in the mirror with his elegant, slender fingers. Of coming back to school in the fall and catching a whiff of his cologne, and feeling like I was _home._

Memories of me _wanting_ Baz. 

Crowley, I wanted Baz.

I _want_ Baz. 

And if the way he's moaning as I place rough kisses down his neck is anything to go off, I can finally have him.

**Baz**

I don't know how long we've been kissing. Time has lost its meaning as a concept. 

At some point, we made our way onto his unmade bed, tangling our limbs together, him above me. He kept pulling back and giving me a soft look, one that I wanted to revel in almost as much as I wanted to keep snogging him. I kept reaching up to him to continue our kisses, and he kept smiling against my lips, like that's exactly what he was hoping I would do. 

Now, the room has started to dim, proof that we've kissed the day into the evening. We're laying side my side, touching everywhere, from our shoulders to our hips to our ankles. (In my defense, this is a twin sized bed; there's nowhere else to go.) (Though, admittedly, I'd want to be this close to him even if this were a king sized bed.) 

The silence hasn't gotten awkward (yet) but underneath my bliss is a creeping anxiety. A question of what this all means. A desperate wish that what just happened with us meant something to him. 

"Why did you kiss me?" I finally ask. 

I feel his eyes on me, so I turn my head to look at him. He's giving me a crooked, self-satisfying grin. 

"Y _ou_ kissed _me,"_ he says triumphantly. I'm torn between wanting to punch the smile off his face, and snog it off. (It's a familiar dilemma.)

"You know what I mean," I reply, and his eyes soften, like he really does. 

"I wanted to," he says with a quick kiss on my temple. "I fancy you." 

Shock and elation war in my chest. I want to be able to just accept that, no questions asked, but I'm me, so I ask, "Since when?" 

He shrugs and I scowl. It doesn't dampen his joy by an inch, but it does make him elaborate. 

"I suppose… a while now. But I just realized today, watching you on the pitch."

"You've watched me a thousand times. What made today so special?" 

"Better view of it?" he says. "I dunno. It just… hit me, watching you like that. And watching that wanker hit you." The last bit he adds with a protective growl that makes my heart sing. 

"My hero," I add, sarcastically, like I didn't relish in the image of Snow punching that arse for me. (Maybe I don't mind being a damsel in distress half as much as I pretended, as long as I'm Snow's.) 

"Shut up," he responds. "I just mean… watching you play football and letting myself think about why I liked it so much just made everything make more sense. Crowley. You're just _ruthless._ " 

"And you like that?" 

"I love it." 

I want to tease him (out of habit) but I know exactly what he means. It's exactly how I feel when I watch him with that sword of his. 

_We match_ , I think, and the thought squeezes at my heart. 

I place one kiss on the mole on his left cheek before getting up from the bed. 

"Where are you going?" he whines. My heart skips when I see he's got a honest to Merlin pout going. 

"To the en suite, Snow. I'm filthy." 

His smile is ravenous at that. I'd blush if I could. "Crowley. Not like _that_. I mean I haven't showered since the game." 

"I don't mind," he says earnestly, grabbing my wrist to stop me from leaving. 

"Well, _I do._ Let go, Snow," I say, but I make no efforts to remove myself from his grip. 

"My name's Simon." 

"It's also Snow."

"I'd like it if you called me Simon."

"Tough luck," I respond, and he smiles.

"I bet I could make you," he teases, and pulls my body to his. 

Will I ever get sick of kissing him? I doubt it. He does this expert thing with his chin that turns my insides to liquid. And it's _Simon._ He's a supernova. When I'm with him, he erases everything else in existence, everything that isn't him.

When he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, my heart sings, _Simon, Simon, Simon._ I promise myself I won't give in and say it aloud. 

But then, since I'm a constant disappointment to myself, I murmur against his lips, "Simon." It comes out as a contented sigh, and he grins like he's won the lottery. 

When I finally get up to use the loo (if I don't make myself do it now, I never will), I notice a familiar journal sticking out of Snow's bookbag. I go down to grab it. 

"What are you doing with my school planner?" I ask. 

"Um, well." Simon looks sheepish. "I was trying to figure out what you were plotting." 

"And you were going to accomplish that with my _school planner_? Do you think I jot down my evil plans next to my reminder that there's a Magick Words exam on Monday?" 

" _There's a Magick Words exam on Monday_?" he asks incredulously, and I roll my eyes. 

"Yes, you pillock. Possibelf has mentioned it a dozen times this week. Do you ever pay attention?" 

"I get distracted," he smiles meaningfully. We have that class together, after all, and he spends half the time staring at me. "But you can help me, yeah? That's what boyfriends are for."

My heart skips a beat. _Boyfriends._

I choke down a pleased smile, and try to sound put out when I say, "You're more trouble than you're worth." But I'm not fooling anyone, not Snow, not myself, if the matching smiles on our faces is anything to go off of. 

When I enter the en suite, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; I barely recognize myself. My hair is a mess, my face is bruised, and my lips are pink from all the snogging. 

But most of all, the most shocking thing is that I look _happy_ . I think of Simon Snow saying to me ' _I fancy you'_ and I have to choke back a giggle, like I'm some lovestruck schoolgirl. 

As I take the quickest shower of my life, eager to get back to Simon, my _boyfriend,_ I think, _I've never been so glad for football._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you liked this! 
> 
> & come find me on [Tumblr](https://annabellelux.tumblr.com)


End file.
